


Carpaccio

by Selina Novella (SilverThistle)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Murder Family, Therapy, Trusting the wrong person, Unknowing cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverThistle/pseuds/Selina%20Novella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between Will and Hannibal during one of Wills sessions, sometime before Entrée. Mostly a character study. Will's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpaccio

 

              The office is similar to the rest of the house it connects to: silent. It is precise, clean, expensively furnished and starkly beautiful in an old world design, very similar to its owner, and like its owner, a bubble of quiet. Where other thing – homes, people, even pets and cars, scream at him, a cacophony of information – pain, joy, suffering, sanity and insanity, pretences, hidden secrets, hidden hopes, hidden hatreds and lusts and loves and hopes and it’s loud Loud LOUD in his head, Hannibal Lecter is a haven. Jack Crawford could not have known when he sent me here that he was sending me to the only sanctuary I’ve had ever found from the storm. But he had. It was. And I almost love Dr Lecter for it.

  
                “When I first met you I was, suspicious, of you, you know.” I muttered, avoiding eye contact by habit, focusing instead on his left eyebrow. Eyes are still… distracting. Even with Hannibal. Eyes dissect you, leave you pinned to a tray with your guts pouring out. And I pick up enough without adding more information voluntarily.

Hannibal seems to notice, since he raised that particular eyebrow at me from his matching leather chair. “Oh?”

I couldn’t hold back a huffed laugh, glancing at the floor. “I’d never met anyone like you. Someone who doesn’t… get imprinted on my mind.”

“As others do?”  A leading question, but then most people are curious about how others see them. Perceive them. Even Hannibal isn’t immune I suppose.

“Everyone does. Everything does. Everything touched or created by someone else. The only peace I’ve felt was in nature, alone with my dogs. It’s the only time I’ve felt like more than a mirror, some sort of Frankenstein monster made up of bits and pieces of other people. Usually terrible people. But you, nothing. I’ve bee-“Not been, I corrected myself. I am not them. I’m not. “ _Felt_ , sociopaths who you’d expect to be empty, but even they had something – motivations, dreams, frustrations. But you’re… empty. Not that I’m complaining.” I add hastily, ducking my head slightly, not wanting to offend the only person who ever actually seems to like me after getting to know me.

Hannibal’s mouth twitched. “No offense is taken, I assure you. I am pleased to offer you what you need. But I must admit myself curious. You reflect, to use your analogy, nothing from me?”

I frowned, searching for the words to express what I meant. “I suppose that’s not entirely accurate. I gather, whispers from you. Like wisps of smoke. But nothing substantial. Nothing… painful. Or loud. Most of what you present is for your patients, to reflect what they need. So I can pick up what they need or you think they need, but it, it feels unimportant. Like a shadow. Because it’s not real. You’re, heh, similar, to me, in that you reflect, but you, you’re solid. You reflect what they need, but they don’t become a part of you. You can build forts. Or maybe battlements.” I choked out a laugh. I don’t say how envious I am of that talent. That there are days when I wish more than anything that I COULD reflect Hannibal Lecter. Could take on his strength, his self assurance, sense of self.  “I can pick up very little. I know that rudeness bothers you, although for some reason you seem to tolerate it from me.”  Why does he allow that? It obviously bothers him in other people. I’ve seen him get stiff in annoyance when Jack barges into a conversation we’re having at a crime scene. I’ve seen him gently lecture Abigail when she snaps at Alana for probing too deeply. But with me…

“One often excuses behavior from their friends, which they would not with anyone else.” Hannibal replied with the slightest crinkling of his eyes, a private smile. One he doesn’t share with anyone else. “As to why you can pick up nothing from me, perhaps someday I shall introduce you to the Method of Loci. Have you heard it?” Hannibal asked.

I shake my head.

“It’s also known as the Mind Palace technique. It’s a method of storing and retrieving information in your mind. It might be useful to you, considering the amount of information you gather.”

“I’d be more like a warehouse than a palace. Or a funhouse.” A palace certainly fits Hannibal though. I can easily imagine him walking the halls of some grand manor.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly. “I think given time, and perhaps that break I keep telling Jack to give you, you would find yourself more organized and capable of building such a place.”

I can’t hold back a snort of disbelief. “Jack would never allow it. He wouldn’t let me go when I asked after Budish killed himself. I begged.” And wasn't that pathetic?

“Jack has not been a very good friend to you.” Hannibal observed.

I can’t help the grimace that crosses my face, baring my teeth, bitter, angry. “I don’t have many… friends. It’s hard for people to be friends with someone who can pick up everything about them, every secret, every thought. No one wants to be friends with someone who does that with murders, rapists, and serial killers. I am, tolerated; by Jack and the FBI because of the answers I can give them. But that doesn’t mean they like me. Most of them think I’m a freak, one step away from being on their top ten list myself. Jack doesn’t lose any sleep at night after manipulating me into staying, his faithful pet.” I’m angry. More so that I thought I was, or maybe just feeling it more in Hannibal’s presence. Where other people would say my feelings were wrong, or even try to talk me out of my anger, fearful of what I’ll do,  Hannibal accepts it, helps me figure out how to channel it. Helps _me_ accept it.

“Will.” Hannibal is standing in front of me with a handkerchief in hand, and I didn’t notice that I had been clenching my hands so tightly that my nails cut into my palms, blood trickling down my wrists. He kneels in front of me and gently cleans the crescent shaped wounds.

“Sorry.” I mutter, embarrassed. Of course I managed to lose it. “I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

Hannibal glances up, giving me another private smile. “Please, do not apologize. Normal people may not appreciate your abilities, or who you are, but as I believe I have said, I do. And I assure you Will, I do not invite my patients to meals in my kitchen. Only my friends.”

This was true. Hannibal seemed to take an absurd amount of joy from feeding me. Since that first protein scramble he had taken to feeding me at every opportunity, something I appreciate since because of him my usual meals of fast food and microwave dinners have lost any appeal. I’m being spoiled.

 “I wish I’d had your friendship earlier.” I’m rambling. I don’t even know why I’m telling him this. If it’s not related to a crime scene I never tell anyone what I’m feeling, thinking. It’s… unsafe, for my emotional wellbeing. “I might be less of a mess.”

He chuckled, leaving me holding the handkerchief while he rifled through his desk searching for what I assume was a band aid. “If you were we probably would not have met. In that sense I am quite thankful for what you have gone through.”

“A bit selfish don’t you think?” I frown, studying the blood stained handkerchief wrapped around my hands.

“Humans are intrinsically selfish beings.” He replied. “Do you mind moving to the kitchen, I have a first aid kit there, and it’s nearing lunch time.” Not even asking if I intended to stay. The invitation and acceptance is an unspoken assumption between us at this point.

I nodded moving careful to avoid spilling any blood on the carpet.

 

 

The kitchen is Hannibal’s sanctum sanctorum. As large and well stocked as any restaurants kitchen, it’s one of the few places that I pick up any tangible pieces of Hannibal, and not just shadows. Hannibal genuinely loves food, loves preparing it, loves sharing it with those select few he chooses to. There is an old pain there, I think he went through a period where he didn’t have any, or not enough. What he told me about being an orphan agrees with that idea. But it’s an old wound, long since scared over and faint with age. Hannibal is opening a cabinet in the butler’s pantry off the kitchen proper, and returns with a rather large first aid kit.

Seeing my slightly incredulous expression, he quirks a smile. “Even the best chefs can be burned by hot oil, or cut by a moments inattention with a knife.” He explains as he takes my hand, running it under the faucet. I winced at the water pressure. “I can do it myself…I’m not a child.” That came out more sulky and childish than I had intended.

“It’s a difficult angle to bandage yourself.” He maintained his hands cool and strong around mine. “And I am a doctor after all.”

“A psychiatrist.” I qualified, not really arguing.

“I attended all the required paramedical classes during my residency at John Hopkins. I am sure I am capable of wrapping a few cuts William.” He’s teasing me. People don’t generally tease me, not in a kind way. Of course they don’t generally touch me or call me their friend or invite me to dinner either. I find myself more myself, more real with him than I am with anyone else. Anywhere else. Even with my dogs I’m just emptying myself. Losing myself. With him I can find that small piece underneath everything else in my head. He’s the best thing to come into my life for as long as I can remember.

“You consider me your friend. I don’t think I’m doing a very good job being yours.” I murmur, feeling almost entranced by the graceful movements of his hands, cleaning and wrapping mine.

“Why do you think that? I enjoy your company and I believe you enjoy mine. We share similar taste in food, at least since I introduced you to something other than the processed chemically altered mess you were poisoning your body with previously. We share people in common. We both feel a sense of parental responsibility toward young Abigail. And while, as you say, I give you peace from the noise in your head, you grant me…” he paused, searching for the right word I suppose? “Someone I can relate to. Someone I almost consider family.”

“A brother?” I hazard, feeling a curious sense of disappointment.

“Perhaps. Perhaps something more like a partner. Our relationship with Abigail has no doubt influenced that. I find myself begrudging Doctor Bloom the time she spends with her. I feel no such frustration or annoyance when you do so.”

I huff in agreement, irrationally pleased at our shared feelings of frustration. “Alana has, strong, ideas on what Abigail needs. She doesn’t like our involvement. She says we’d just become crutches for her.” My own self doubt breaks in as usual seconds later though. “She may be right. Abigail doesn’t need her father’s murderer, who suffers hallucinations and sleep walks, holding her hand. She should probably get a restraining order.”

“I believe Abigail needs both of us in order to heal from what she has gone through. Your sleep walking and hallucinations stem from the same place her nightmares do. You will both progress more swiftly together than separately.”

“And you? Do you have something to heal too?” I demand defensively.

“What occurred at Garret Jacob Hobbs’s home would be traumatic for anyone. I am not entirely without feeling Will.” He glances at me a mixture of amusement and slight rebuke in his face.

“No, I know that. You just, mask it really well. Better than anyone else.” Abruptly I realize he’s finished wrapping my cuts, his pianists’ fingers absently tracing the tape holding the bandage in place. Was that intentional or… no, Hannibal Lecter would never have any interest like THAT in someone like me. I pull away, embarrassed and anxious. Hannibal obviously picks that up, since he turns and begins looking through his refrigerator, graciously not commenting on my discomfort.

“What are you in the mood for?” he queries as he puts on a white apron. “I have a lovely piece of venison I can sauté if you’re interested.”

I’m shaking my head before he finished his sentence. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’ve caused enough.” I raise my hands as proof of his trouble.

“Nonsense. If I do not use it soon it will go bad, it is far too delicate to put in the freezer.”  

 

In the end we ate what Hannibal said was a venison Carpaccio. Normally I’d never touch raw meat, but I trusted Hannibal, and was surprised to find it delicious and nothing like any venison I’d ever had before. He seemed pleased and slightly amused when I said as much, and pressed a second helping onto my plate. I shudder to think where I’d be, mentally if not him, my best, and only, friend. He’s not just my paddle, but my anchor. My safe harbor. For the first time in my life the concept of my own death doesn’t seem like a welcome release that can't come soon enough. There’s light.

**Author's Note:**

> AN – My first attempt at a Hannibal fanfic. Just an afternoon with the two of them. Poor Will has no idea what the man in front of him is capable of. I think this series is really a Shakespearean tragedy. 
> 
> Carpaccio is a dish of raw meat cut in very thin strips, invented in Venice. And of course, as Hannibal serves it, it’s not really venison. 
> 
> Please review, I was aiming more for a character study than any real story. I hope I captured Will well, his manner of speaking is hard to write accurately.


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